The Jewel in the Skull

by Michael Moorcock

  Count Brass left the tower he had entered and rode back to join them. He was grinning. 'We have still other weapons to display to these fools,' he said.

  'But can they fight such a weight of men?' Hawkmoon asked, for the infantry were now moving forward, their numbers so vast that it seemed not even the mightiest weapons could stop their advance.

  'We shall see,' Count Brass replied, signalling to a lookout on a nearby tower. The air above them was black with fighting birds and machines, red traceries of fire crisscrossing the sky, pieces of metal and bloody feathers falling all around them. It was impossible to tell which side was winning.

  The infantry was almost upon them when Count Brass waved his sword to the lookout and the tower turned wide-muzzled weapons toward the armies of Granbretan. Glass spheres, shimmering blue in the light, hurtled toward the advancing warriors and fell among them. Hawkmoon saw them break formation, begin to run about wildly, flailing at the air and ripping off the masks of their respective Orders.

  'What has happened? he asked Count Brass in amazement.

  'The spheres contain a hallucinatory gas,' Count Brass told him. 'It makes the men see dreadful visions.' Now he turned in his saddle and waved his sword to the waiting men below. They began to advance. 'The time has come to meet Granbretan with ordinary weapons,' he said.

  From the remaining ranks of infantry, arrows flew thickly toward them and flame-lances sent searing fire. Count Brass's archers retaliated, and his flame-lancers also returned the attack. Arrows clattered on their armour. Several men fell. Others were struck down by the flame-lances. Through the chaos of fire and flying arrows, the infantry of Granbretan steadily advanced, in spite of depleted numbers. They paused when they came to the swampy ground, choked as it was with the bodies of their horses, and their officers furiously urged them on.

  Count Brass ordered his herald forward, and the man approached, bearing the simple flag of his master - a red gauntlet on a white field.

  The three men waited as the infantry broke ranks and began to clamber through the mud and over the corpses of the horses, struggling to reach the hill where the forces of the Kamarg waited to meet them.

  Hawkmoon saw Meliadus some distance in the rear and recognized the barbaric vulture-mask of Asrovak Mikosevaar as the Muskovian led his Vulture Legion on foot and was one of the first to cross the swamp and reach the slopes of the hill.

  Hawkmoon trotted his horse forward a little so that he would be directly in the path of Mikosevaar when he approached.

  He heard a bellow, and the vulture-mask glared at him with eyes of ruby. 'Aha! Hawkmoon! The dog that has worried at us for so long! Now let's see how you conduct yourself in a fair fight, traitor!'

  'Call me not "traitor ",' Hawkmoon said angrily. 'You sniffer of corpses!'

  Mikosevaar hefted his great war axe in his armoured hands, bellowed again, and began to run toward Hawkmoon, who jumped from his horse and, with shield and broadsword, prepared to defend himself.

  The axe, shod all in metal, thundered against the shield and sent Hawkmoon staggering back a pace. Another blow followed and split the top edge of the shield. Hawkmoon swung his sword around, and it struck Mikosevaar's heavily armoured shoulder with a great ringing sound, sending up a shower of sparks. Both men held their ground, giving blow for blow as the battle raged around them. Hawkmoon glanced at von Villach and saw him engaged with Mygel Hoist, Archduke of Londra, well-matched in age and strength, and Count Brass was ploughing through the lesser warriors, trying to seek out Meliadus, who had plainly decided to supervise the battle from a distance.

  From their advantageous position, the Kamargians withstood the Dark Empire warriors, holding their line firm.

  Hawkmoon's shield was a ruin of jagged metal and useless. He flung it from his arm and seized his sword in both hands, swinging it to meet the blow Mikosevaar aimed at his head. The two men grunted with exertion as they manoeuvred about in the slippery earth of the hill, now jabbing to try to make the other lose his footing, now slashing suddenly at the legs or torso or battering from above or the side.

  Hawkmoon was sweating heavily in his armour, and he grunted with effort. Then suddenly his foot slid from under him and he fell to one knee, Mikosevaar lumbering forward to raise his axe and decapitate his enemy. Hawkmoon flung himself flat, toward Mikosevaar, and grabbed at the man's legs, pulling him down so that both men rolled over and over toward the swamp and the mounds of dead horses.

  Punching and cursing, they came to a halt in the filth. Neither had lost his weapon, and now they stumbled to their feet, preparing to continue the fight. Hawkmoon braced himself against the body of a warhorse and swung at the Muskovian. The swing would have broken Mikosevaar's neck had not he ducked, but it knocked the vulture helm from his head, revealing the white, bushy beard and glaring, insane eyes of the Muskovian, who brought his axe upward toward Hawkmoon's belly and had the blow blocked by the sword whistling down.

  Releasing his grip on the sword, Hawkmoon pushed with both hands at Mikosevaar's chest, and the man fell backward. As he tried to scramble up, Hawkmoon took a fresh hold of his broadsword, raised it high, and plunged it at the Muskovian's face. The man yelled. The blade rose and descended again. Asrovak Mikosevaar shrieked, and then the sound was suddenly cut off. Hawkmoon lost interest in the groaning thing at his feet and turned to see how the battle went.

  It was hard to tell. Everywhere men were falling, and it seemed that the great majority were Granbretanians. The fight in the air was almost over, and only a few ornithopters circled the sky, while there seemed to be many more flamingoes.

  Was it possible that the Kamarg was winning?

  Hawkmoon turned as two warriors of the Vulture Legion ran toward him. Recklessly he stooped to drag up the bloodied mask of Mikosevaar. He laughed at them. 'Look! Your Grand Constable is slain — your warlord is destroyed!' The warriors hesitated, then backed away from Hawkmoon and began to run the way they had come. The Vulture Legion did not have the discipline of the other Orders.

  Hawkmoon began to clamber wearily over the bodies of the dead horses, which were now liberally heaped with human corpses. The battle was thin in this area, but he could see von Villach on the hill, kicking the wounded body of Mygel Hoist and roaring in triumph as he turned to deal with a group of Hoist's warriors who ran at him with spears. Von Villach seemed to need no aid. Hawkmoon began to run as best he could up to the top of the hill, to get a better idea of how the battle turned.

  His broadsword was blooded thrice before he could reach his objective and look at the field. The huge army that Meliadus had brought against them was now scarcely a sixth of its former size, while the line of Kamargian warriors still held fast.

  Half the banners of the warlords were down, and others were sorely beset. The tight formations of the Granbretan-ian infantry were largely broken, and Hawkmoon saw that the unprecedented was happening and that the Orders were becoming mixed together, thus throwing their members in confusion, since they were used to fighting side by side with their own brothers.

  Hawkmoon saw Count Brass, still mounted, engaged with several swordsmen down the hill. He saw the standard of Meliadus some distance away. It was surrounded by men of the Order of the Wolf. Meliadus had protected himself well. Now Hawkmoon saw several of the commanders - Adaz Promp and Jerek Nankenseen among them - ride toward Meliadus. Evidently they wanted to retreat but must wait for Meliadus's order to do so.

  He could guess what the commanders told Meliadus -that the flower of their warriors was being destroyed, that such destruction was not worth suffering for the sake of one tiny province.

  But no call came from the trumpets of the heralds who waited nearby. Meliadus was evidently resisting their pleas.

  Von Villach came up, riding a borrowed horse. He pushed back his helm and grinned at Hawkmoon. 'We're beating them, I think, he said. 'Where is Count Brass?'

  Hawkmoon pointed. 'He is making good account,' he smiled. 'Should we hold steady or begin to advance - we
could if we wished it. I think the Granbretanian warlords are faltering and want to retreat. A push now, and it might make up their minds for them.'

  Von Villach nodded. 'I'll send a messenger down to the count. He must decide.'

  He turned to a horseman and muttered a few words to him. The man began to race down the hillside, through the confusion of embattled warriors.

  Hawkmoon saw him reach the Count, saw Count Brass glance up and wave to them, wheel his horse, and begin to return.

  Within ten minutes, Count Brass had managed to regain the hill. 'Five warlords I slew,' he said with a satisfied air. 'But Meliadus slunk away.'

  Hawkmoon repeated what he had said to von Villach, Count Brass agreed with the sense of the plan, and soon the Kamarg infantry began to advance steadily, pushing the Granbretanians down the hill before them.

  Hawkmoon found a fresh horse and led the advance, yelling wildly as he chopped about him, striking heads from necks, limbs from torsos, like apples from the bough. His body was covered from head to foot in the blood of the slain. His mail was ragged and threatening to fall from him. His whole chest was a mass of bruises and minor cuts, his arm bled, and his leg ached horribly, but he ignored it all as the bloodlust seized him and he killed man after man.

  Riding beside him, von Villach said in a moment of comparative peace, 'You seem decided to kill more of the dogs than the rest of our army put together.'

  'I would not cease if the blood of Granbretan filled this whole plain,' Hawkmoon replied grimly. 'I would not cease until everything that lived of Granbretan was destroyed.'

  'Your bloodlust matches theirs,' von Villach said ironically.

  'Mine is greater,' Hawkmoon called, driving forward, 'for half theirs is sport.'

  And, butchering, on he rode.

  At last it seemed that his commanders convinced him, for Meliadus's trumpets shouted the retreat and the survivors broke away from the Kamargians and began to run.

  Hawkmoon struck down several who threw away their weapons in attitudes of surrender. 'I do not care for living Granbretanians,' he said once as he stabbed a man who had ripped his mask from his young face and begged for mercy.

  But at length even Hawkmoon's bitterness was satiated for a while, and he drew up his horse beside those of Count Brass and von Villach and watched as the Granbretanians re-formed their ranks and began to march away.

  Hawkmoon thought he heard a great scream of rage rise from the retreating army, thought he recognized the vengeful sound as that of Meliadus, and he smiled.

  'We shall see Meliadus again,' he said.

  Count Brass nodded agreement. 'He has found the Kamarg invincible to attack by his armies, and he knows that we are too clever to be deceived by his treachery, but he will find some other way. Soon all the lands about the Kamarg will belong to the Dark Empire and we shall have to be on our guard the whole time.'

  When they returned to Castle Brass that night, Bowgentle spoke to the count. 'Now do you realize that Granbretan is insane - a cancer that will infect history and will set it on a course that will not only lead to the destruction of the entire human race, but will ultimately result in the destruction of every intelligent or potentially intelligent creature in the universe?'

  Count Brass smiled. 'You are exaggerating, Bowgentle. How could you know so much?'

  'Because it is my calling to understand the forces that go to work to make up what we call destiny. I tell you again, Count Brass, the Dark Empire will infect the universe unless it is checked on this planet - and preferably on this continent.'

  Hawkmoon sat with his legs stretched out before him, doing his best to work the ache from his muscles. "I have no understanding of the philosophical principles you base your beliefs upon, Sir Bowgentle,' he said, 'but instinctively I know you to be right. All we think we see is an implacable enemy that means to rule the world - there have been other races like them in the past - but there is something different about the Dark Empire. Forget you not, Count Brass, that I spent time in Londra and was witness to many of their more excessive insanities. You have seen only their armies, which, like most armies, fight fiercely and to win, using conventional tactics because they are the best. But there is little conventional about the King-Emperor, immortal corpse that he is, in his Throne Globe; little conventional about the secret way they have with one another, the sense of insanity that underlies the mood of the entire city ...'

  'You think we have not, then, witnessed the worst of what they can do?' Count Brass asked seriously.

  'That is what I think,' Hawkmoon said. 'It is not only the need for vengeance that makes me slay them as I do - it is a deeper thing within me that sees them as a threat to the forces of Life itself.'

  Count Brass sighed. 'Perhaps you are right, I do not know. Only the Runestaff could prove you right or wrong.'

  Hawkmoon got up stiffly. 'I have not seen Yisselda since we returned,' he said.

  'She went to her bed early, I think,' Bowgentle told him.

  Hawkmoon was disappointed. He had looked forward to her welcome. Had wanted to tell her personally of his victories. It surprised him that she had not been there to greet him.

  He shrugged. 'Well, I think I'll to mine,' he said. 'Good night, gentlemen.'

  They had spoken little of their triumph since returning. Now they were experiencing the reaction of their day's work, and it all seemed a trifle remote, though tomorrow, doubtless, they would celebrate.

  When he reached his room it was in darkness, but Hawkmoon sensed something odd and drew his sword before fumbling his way to a table and turning up the lamp that stood there.

  Someone lay on his bed, smiling at him. It was Yisselda.

  'I heard of your exploits,' said she, 'and wanted to give you a private welcome. You are a great hero, Dorian.'

  Hawkmoon felt his breathing become more rapid, felt his heart begin to pound. 'Oh, Yisselda . . .'

  Slowly, step by step, he advanced toward the prone girl, his conscience in conflict with his desire.

  'You love me, Dorian, I know,' she said softly. 'Do you deny it?'

  He could not. He spoke thickly. 'You . . . are . . . very . . . bold . . .' he said, trying to smile.

  'Aye - for you seem extraordinarily shy. I am not immodest.'

  'I — I am not shy, Yisselda. But no good could come of this. I am doomed — the Black Jewel . . ,'

  'What is the Jewel?'

  Hesitantly, he told her everything, told her that he did not know how many months Count Brass's soreerous chains could hold the life force of the Jewel, told her that when its power was released, the Lords of the Dark Empire would be able to destroy his mind.

  'So you see - you must not become attached to me ... It would be worse if you did.'

  'But this Malagigi - why do you not seek his aid?'

  'The journey would take months. I might waste my remaining time on a fruitless quest.'

  'If you loved me,' she said as he sat down on the bed beside her and took her hand, 'you would risk that.'

  'Aye,' he said thoughtfully. 'I would. Perhaps you are right...'

  She reached up and drew his face toward hers, kissing his lips. The gesture was artless but full of sweetness.

  Now he could not restrain himself. He kissed her passionately, held her close. 'I will go to Persia,' he said at length, 'though the way will be perilous, for once I leave the safety of the Kamarg, Meliadus's forces will seek me out.'

  'You will come back, " she said with conviction. 'I know you will come back. My love will draw you to me. '

  'And mine to you?' He stroked her face gently. 'Aye — that could be so.'

  'Tomorrow,' she said. 'Leave tomorrow and waste no time. Tonight ...'

  She kissed him again, and he returned her passion fiercely.

  BOOK THREE

  The histories then tell how, leaving the Kamarg, Hawkmoon flew eastward on a giant scarlet bird that bore him a thousand miles or more before it came to the mountains bordering the lands of the Greeks an
d the Bulgars . . .

  — The High History of the Runestaff

  1

  Oladahn

  The flamingo was surprisingly easy to ride, as Count Brass had assured him it would be. It responded to commands in the manner of a horse, by means of the reins attached to its curved beak, and was so graceful that never once did Hawkmoon fear falling. In spite of the bird's refusal to fly when it rained, it carried him ten times more swiftly than a horse, needing to rest only for a short time at midday and sleeping, like Hawkmoon, at night.

  The high, soft saddle, with its curved pommel, was comfortable, and from it hung panniers of provisions. A harness secured Hawkmoon in this saddle. Its long neck stretched straight before it and its great wings beating slowly, the scarlet bird bore him over mountains, valleys, forests, and plains. Hawkmoon always tried to let the bird come down near rivers or lakes where it could find food to its liking.

  Occasionally, Hawkmoon's head would throb, reminding him of the urgency of his mission, but as his winged mount took him farther and farther eastward and the air grew steadily warmer, Hawkmoon's spirits began to rise, and it seemed that the possibilities of returning soon to Yisselda were increasing.

  About a week after he had left the Kamarg, he was flying over a range of craggy mountains looking for a place to land. It was late evening, and the bird was wearying, dropping lower and lower until the gloomy peaks were all around them and still no water could be seen. Then, suddenly, Hawkmoon saw the figure of a man on the rocky slopes below and, almost instantly, the flamingo screamed, flapping its wings wildly, rocking in the air. Hawkmoon saw a long arrow jutting from its side. A second arrow thudded into the bird's neck, and with a croak, it began to fall rapidly toward the ground. Hawkmoon clung to the pommel of his saddle as the air tore through his hair. He saw the rock rise up, felt a great concussion, and then his head had struck something and he seemed to tumble sickeningly into a black, bottomless well.

  Hawkmoon awoke in panic. It seemed that the Black Jewel had been given its life and was even now gnawing at his brain like a rat at a grain sack. He put both hands to his head and felt cuts and bumps, realizing with relief that the pain was physical, resulting from his crash to earth. It was dark, and it seemed that he lay in a cave. Peering forward he saw a flicker of firelight beyond the cave's entrance. He got up and began to make his way toward it.